


On My First Son

by pansley



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, F/M, Kid Fic, Kid Peter Parker, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Sickfic, Superfamily, Terminal Illnesses, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 20:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16709800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansley/pseuds/pansley
Summary: Despite the challenges of being a single father, Tony knew nothing but bliss for the first four years of his son's life.But nothing lasts forever.





	On My First Son

  
_Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;_  
_My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy._

_"On My First Son," Ben Jonson_

 

The room was filled with a series of overlapping _kluk-kluk-kluk_ sounds that would have been irritating if Peter wasn’t the one making them. Tony tried to focus on reading the morning news on his tablet, but his gaze continuously flittered upward, where his son sat in the middle of the carpet, determinedly trying to assemble his toy rocket. A toy meant for much older kids, ages eight and up, but Peter was smart and he listened when Tony told him to keep the little pieces out of his mouth. He knew better at three than most kids twice his age.

After reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word of it, Tony gave up and set his tablet down, one eyebrow lifting when he saw the spot Peter previously occupied on the living room floor was suddenly empty.

“Daddy?” Peter said, making Tony jump in his seat, startled that Peter was instantly beside him, quieter than any three-year-old had any right to be. He’d always been like that, his whole life. Light on his feet and sneaky like a little ninja. “Can you help me?”

“What have I told you about sneaking up on me?” Tony said, a smile cracking over his face when he saw the playful, mischievous grin his son had. He took the toy rocket from Peter’s outstretched hands and snapped the base into place before handing it back, not needing to remind the boy to say thank you; Peter gratefully took the toy and smiled up at him with a polite, “Thank you Daddy.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo,” Tony replied, ruffling Peter’s hair as he stood up to refill his empty coffee mug. “It’s almost time to get ready for the day though, so I think you should start cleaning up soon, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Peter said as he trotted back over to the carpet. By the time Tony returned from the kitchen with a fresh cup of coffee, Peter was already gathering his toys into his little arms, piling way too many all at once, the stuffed animals and plastic robots slipping and falling all over the place.

Tony tried not to laugh at the sight of his kid stubbornly trying to hold everything at the same time. He really did. “Need some help?”

“Can do it,” Peter said, laser-focused on bending down and picking up one toy at a time, even as another went tumbling over his shoulder each time he bent down. He could be so obstinate sometimes, but it always managed to be unbearably endearing to Tony; made the love he held for this small bundle of joy swell so big that his chest ached to hold it all.

Tony didn’t know it was possible to love something so much. It amazed him, the things Peter could do now, how he could dress and feed himself, how he could clumsily take care of himself. It felt like only yesterday that he was a helpless infant, rocked back and forth in Tony’s arms as Pepper packed her bags.

When people said, “Kids grow up so fast,” that was what they meant—how fast children progress from defenseless infants to semi-independent toddlers in seemingly a few short months. Tony could hardly believe that in just over a year, Peter would be five years old, starting kindergarten, going to school for the first time, meeting other kids and making friends and learning from someone who wasn’t his dad or Uncle Rhodey for once.

The thought made him embarrassingly weepy, especially when he’d been drinking, sitting with Rhodey in the lounge and sipping scotch late into the night as they played catch-up, Peter having fallen asleep curled up on the armchair hours ago, Tony content to let him sleep there while they talked in low voices. He found comfort in being able to keep an eye on Peter while he slept, watching his chest rise and fall with even breaths.

“I just can’t believe it, Rhodey. In a year he’ll be starting school. I could swear he was switching from formula to baby food, like, last month.”

“You’re both getting old, man,” Rhodey said, sending him a playful look over the rim of his glass. “Shit’s crazy, though. _I_ can’t believe how well he talks. My niece can’t talk as well as him, and she turned seven a week ago.”

Tony beamed, unabashedly proud. “He’s so smart, Rhodey. Kid figures things out faster than I can explain them. I’m doomed if that tyrannical streak ever hits.”

“You really are,” Rhodey agreed. “In more ways than one. He’s got you wrapped around his finger.”

“It’s not my fault, I can’t help it. I’m powerless against that little face of his.” Tony shot Rhodey a look, definitely not pouting. “Don’t pretend you’re any better. You’ve never told him ‘no’ once.”

Rhodey raised one hand in surrender, the other steadying his glass of scotch as he laughed. “Yeah yeah, guilty.” He took another swig of the caramel-colored alcohol. “I still think you’re being dramatic, Tones. He’s turning four, not five. You have a whole year before you gotta start worrying about him starting school.”

“But you admit I _do_ need to worry,” Tony said.

Rhodey light-heartedly glared at him. “Man, for real. Kids grow up. Peter’s going to grow up, too. You just gotta deal with it.”

Curling in on himself lightly, Tony wilted, looking over at his still-sleeping son, undeniably pouting now.

“I don’t want to deal with it,” he said, mournfully, already feeling the very distinct and unfamiliar panic of _empty nest syndrome,_ that particular grief of watching your child leave home, of leaving childhood behind. “I don’t want him to grow up.”

 

The day of his fourth birthday was spent with Peter sick in bed with bronchitis. The kid hardly said two words the whole day, nursing his aching throat with more ice cream than Tony thought could fit into that tiny body. Tony lay with him all day, holding Peter against his chest and smoothing his unruly curls out of his face. Peter mostly slept, face hot and body fatigued from the infection.

It was the first time Peter had really been sick, at least with anything more serious than a cold, and Tony was embarrassed by how much it emotionally compromised him. He clung to his poor sick kid the whole time, quietly murmuring to him that he’d be all right, even when Peter was totally passed out and couldn’t hear a word of it.

“Daddy,” Peter whispered hoarsely against his chest, his voice layered with scratchiness, rough like a marble rolling over un-smoothed concrete, “m’I dying?”

Tony almost laughed, but the genuine fear in Peter’s sickly voice let him do nothing but hold his son tighter. “Of course not, baby. Everyone gets sick at least a few times throughout their life. You’ll get better.”

Peter tried to sigh, but it turned into a painful coughing fit instead, and he curled up tighter on Tony’s chest until he was lying on him completely, his small head resting flat against Tony’s heartbeat.

“Worst birthday ever, hey kiddo?” Tony whispered, realizing by the looseness of Peter’s limbs that he had already fallen asleep. “Promise me something, no getting sick next year. How am I supposed to throw you an awesome party if you’re bedridden like this?”

Peter’s small hand weakly fisted his shirt, and Tony took that as all the promise he needed.

He made the call two days later.

Peter’s bronchitis had mostly cleared up, but the residual effects of the infection showed no signs of disappearing. He was tired all the time, his appetite had all but disappeared, and more alarmingly, he was in pain, complaining that his stomach hurt, giving Tony new fears that he might’ve been allergic to the antibiotics or something.

Bruce was sympathetic when he showed up, but Tony could see the lingering doubt on the man’s face. “Tony, I’m not a pediatrician. Peter should go to a clinic, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not taking him near other sick kids,” Tony said defensively, his tone indignant. “What if his immune system is compromised? His throat only _just_ started feeling better.”

“You know that they sterilize those environments, right?” Bruce asked, one eyebrow raised. “Peter should be far enough along with his antibiotics that he’s going to keep feeling better, as long as he takes all of them.”

Tony rolled his eyes. Bruce, ever the drama queen. “I know to keep giving him his antibiotics until they’re all gone, Bruce. I’m not an idiot.”

“Tony, this is the second time you’ve called me here this week. He’s fighting bronchitis and he’s never really been sick before, of _course_ he still has some lingering symptoms.” Tony felt his face crease with worry, all hard lines etched into his skin. Bruce sighed. “There’s only so much diagnosing I can do in your living room. I agree that his stomach pains are worrying, so again, _take him to a clinic.”_

They stared at each other for a tense series of seconds, before Tony caved and sighed, suddenly looking much older than he had before they began arguing. “Fine, Brucie, you win. Clinic it is.”

Bruce nodded, smiling at his exaggerated exasperation. “At the very least, they can get him some pain relief,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And more importantly, they can make sure it’s nothing serious.”

 

Tony spent more time than most people thinking about irony.

He wasn’t a stranger to suffering, but of all the terrible things Tony had survived, irony was the worst. Worse than the loss, than the grief and the guilt. The irony burned like a brand on his skin that never healed, constantly there, itching and aching and festering in a place he couldn’t amputate. The irony was worse because it mocked him, so close to being laughable, except every time it reared its ugly head, the situation was never funny.

It was ironic that the first loving thing Howard ever said to him was immediately followed by the man’s death. _I’m proud of you, son,_ patting him on the back, an action that made Tony’s muscles tense, even at twenty-one. Watching his father lead his mother out the door to their car, driving away, the last time he ever saw them alive. That was irony, a great big slap of it, how Tony had felt a real and tangible thread of hope in that moment that Howard had come around, that they could have a real relationship, that Tony had finally proven himself to the man he idolized.

That was his big mistake, right there. The hope. And irony was his punishment. It was his punishment when Rhodey was paralyzed, an accident caused by tech that Tony designed, a one-in-a-billion defect that cost his friend his ability to walk by himself, after Rhodey had stuck his neck out to convince his military bosses that Tony’s tech was unmatched in its quality. That had been a double taste of irony, that day, for him and Rhodey both.

And Pepper was ironic, in her own way, after almost a decade of accusing Tony of being terrified of commitment, of being too much of a playboy for her, of not being grounded enough, she walked away the second he finally let himself settle down, the moment he gave in, just packed her bags and left him with Peter.

There was no bigger irony than Peter.

Rhodey’s voice filtered in and out of his head, but the words didn’t _mean_ anything, just confusing syllables all stringing together with no substance to them. Tony wasn’t even sure they were speaking English. The doctor was looking at him as he spoke, but Tony couldn’t make sense of the words, didn’t know what either of them were saying as Rhodey replied for him.

“I am sorry, Mr. Stark. There are treatments available . . . ”

The woman sitting next to the doctor was staring at him, her eyes wet with tears. Tony stared back, not able to understand, so confused by the dampness clinging to this stranger’s lashes. Why would she be crying for him? None of this was what it sounded like, none of it made sense. It couldn’t be what he thought he heard. The words rolled over him like a tide on the sand, again and again, not staying still long enough for him to grab them, make sense of them.

He felt Rhodey collapse beside him, and the sight of his friend folding in half, resting his head between his knees against the braces that helped him walk, brought Tony back to the present, to this hideous little alcohol-scented office, the chipped duckling-patterned wallpaper, the strangers sitting across from him.

“I don’t understand,” Tony admitted, because he didn’t know what else to say. It was the only honest thing he knew. “It was just bronchitis. And I would . . . I would _know_ if it was that serious. Peter’s never even been sick until now. He’s nothing like those kids.”

Images flashed through his mind, small fragile bodies wrapped in pale, translucent skin, thin and wasting away, bald little heads and hospital gowns and IV tubes wrapped around them from head to toe like vines. That’s what he imagined when he thought of _cancer kids,_ children dying in hospital beds, sick children, too weak to even walk by themselves, rows and rows of Make-A-Wish skeletons. That wasn’t Peter, couldn’t be a further thing.

“My son can’t have cancer,” Tony said, voice laced with frustration. He could feel every hair follicle in his scalp. His words slid out on their own; he had no mind at all, just the tremor in his left hand that would not stop. “Your tests have gotta be wrong. Peter’s always been healthy. Most days I can’t even catch him when he’s running around. He—he _literally_ climbs up my walls. It just has to be wrong.”

“Mr. Stark, I understand that this is very sudden,” the doctor said, his eyes so gentle and sympathetic that it made Tony’s hands twitch, anger bubbling within his veins. _Why aren’t you listening to me?_ He straightened his back out, his legs were shaking, he couldn’t stop. “The good news is that we’re talking very early stages here. Like I said, there are treatments—”

Tony shook his head, bringing a hand up to his forehead and surprised to feel it damp with sweat. That made no sense, he was cold all over. His skin prickled on his arms and the back of his neck from the chill. “Peter _can’t_ be sick,” he said, his mind like a closed fist, no thought coming in or out except _no no no_. How did he turn this off? He felt trapped in a dream, a room full of lies, like a tent in a circus lined wall-to-wall with reality-distorting mirrors. No door out of this madhouse, just worse and worse variations of himself, mocking him. He felt drunk all of a sudden, his head cottony like he’d chased a line of cocaine with a bottle of Ritalin. “He was fine three weeks ago. Didn’t have so much as a runny nose. It doesn’t make any _sense._ ”

“The symptoms usually appear before the age of five,” the doctor said, softly, somehow enraging Tony further. “Although most children are diagnosed before three. Peter’s strain is very rare, but still treatable. You need to focus on that, Mr. Stark. Peter still has a chance.”

 _Has a chance,_ as if he should be grateful for that, like the idea of Peter _not_ having a chance was even viable. Like Tony should be celebrating that Peter had a chance to live, when the idea that there was a chance he wouldn’t hadn’t even sunk in yet. It wasn’t real, it was as far away as if the man had told him, _Peter built himself a rocket, is on the way to the moon as we speak. He has a chance to make it back, you just have to close your eyes and believe._

He stood abruptly, pulling away when Rhodey reached for him, the man’s damn face was wet with tears. Why him too? Rhodey knew Peter almost as well as Tony did, he had to know this was a mistake. There was no way he could believe the nonsense they were feeding them, not when Peter was just outside the door, playing and breathing and _alive,_ not like the kids in the hospital beds upstairs. He ripped open the door and clenched his teeth angrily when the nurse fixed him with those same wet fucking eyes, Peter sitting in her lap, eyes glued to the picture book she was holding.

Tony made it two steps into the room before he was crumpling on the floor. He closed his eyes but all he could see was duckling wallpaper, crying eyes, and the irony of it all, the payment for the last four years lodged in his throat, suffocating him. _Take it all back,_ he begged, tried to scream, but all that wanted to escape was a violent, heaving sob. He swallowed it down, kept it inside, his eyes clenched shut so tightly the tears couldn’t fall. _Take it all back, every scrap of joy. But please God don’t take my son._

 

He woke to the sound of violent retching, so loud and guttural that he knew what it was before he was even really awake. Tony rolled out of bed blindly, his hands moving in front of him to help him navigate the pitch black, and he rushed into the hallway outside Peter’s room where he found him, curled on the floor, not able to make it to the bathroom before he threw up.

“Oh, kiddo,” Tony said instantly, kneeling down and wrapping his arms around his son to lift him up. “Why didn’t you wake me up if you were feeling sick?”

He started to lift Peter into his arms, his hands on his son’s stomach, when Peter groaned miserably and pushed at his shoulders, whining, his scrunched up face breaking immediately into a series of wailing, gut-wrenching sobs.

Tony sucked in a startled breath, moving his hands immediately. “Sorry, baby, is it your tummy? Does your tummy hurt?”

Peter didn’t—couldn’t—answer, his sobs continuing at their heartbreaking volume with no sign of slowing down. Tony swore beneath his breath and lifted the boy’s shirt, his fingers trembling and his own eyes welling up when he looked at Peter’s stomach. “Oh my god, Peter . . . ”

Peter’s fair skin was sickly pale, made worse by the hideous, distinct web of blue veins that landscaped his entire midsection, wrapped around his stomach and back and sides. The veins were stark against his skin, covering him like dark cracks in his flesh. His belly was distended, swollen, and Tony had no idea how he managed to make it this far out of bed in a state like this.

He pulled Peter up into his arms, resting his sobbing face against his shoulder as he rocked him, gently, trying to shush him while trying not to put any pressure on his engorged stomach. He brought him back to his room and laid him down on the bed, but Peter rolled over and pushed himself to his knees, pressing his face into the mattress, his arms wrapping around his belly.

Dr. Cho had told him that the chemotherapy could cause constipation, but he’d never seen anything like this before, had never seen the effects of not being able to go to the bathroom for days. Peter continued to cry into his blankets, and Tony was awash with helplessness, trembling under the immovable need to help his son, to do something, but there was nothing he could do.

All he could think of was to take his son back into his arms and hold him, cradling him, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could make it all better. “You’re okay, you’re all right,” he lied, getting up and walking around so he could pace with Peter in his arms. The boy was still crying into his neck, gripping his sleeve in a white-knuckled fist as he sobbed against the collar of Tony’s shirt. “Shh, you’re okay, baby. You’re okay.” Peter crying so hard, he just couldn’t stop.

Weakness pulled Tony down to the floor. He was brought to his knees in the hallway, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, holding Peter too tight, but if he let his arms slip even a little, even slightly, he would lose all strength in them forever and never being able to hold his son again.

He wished Pepper were here, or Rhodey, or Steve. Someone who would know what to do, who was better at this than he was. Tony never knew what to do. It was the thing he hated most about himself, being so stupid and useless, he never knew the right thing.

“Have I ever told you how your mom and I met?” he whispered, not loud enough for Peter to hear over his agonized wails vibrating off the hallway walls. Everything looked wrong under the harsh yellow ceiling lights, Tony didn’t know how he never noticed that before. “She came in to interview to be my assistant, and I offered her the job as soon as I laid eyes on her. She was so beautiful, Pete. The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

Peter didn’t stop crying, but his small arms tightened their trembling hold around his neck, so he continued.

“You know what she did? She turned it down. Said she didn’t want to work for a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to look at her résumé. I had to grovel my way out of that one, I just couldn’t let her leave. I loved her the moment I saw her.”

He felt the hot tears sting his eyes, and as soon as he was aware of them, he was gritting his teeth to bite down on the sobs longing to follow. The tears threatened to run, but Tony bit his lip to stop them and crushed his son tighter against his chest, hating this. He felt sorry for himself, that everything was up to him, all alone, when he didn’t know what to do. But mostly he felt sorry for Peter, the thought that he might never get to fall in love with someone the way Tony had.

Everyone said he couldn’t do it. Not outright, not without concern, but even Rhodey had taken his shoulder and quietly asked him if raising a baby was something he was up for after Pepper left. And you know what? A younger Tony would have done it out of spite. He would have thrown himself into parenting the way he did with his father’s company after the man’s death, the way he did with Pepper when she finally agreed to get serious, the way he did with everything he needed to succeed at to prove himself.

But he didn’t need to do that with Peter. He didn’t do it out of spite. He held that baby in his arms and it was the easiest thing in the world, stepping up, being the father Howard never was. To hell with everyone’s idea of him, Tony Stark, the playboy, the single father they all took bets on how long he would last before giving up the responsibility. He proved them all wrong, and he did it honestly, by putting his head down and focusing on _Peter,_ the only person whose opinion of him mattered.

And then this. This was the grand obstacle Tony finally stumbled at, and no one was telling him “I told you so” now. It was the kick to remind him that he couldn’t do it. He came too close, and this was the price. The story of his life. God gave you everything just to take it away. Just so you knew exactly what you were missing.

Peter went limp in his arms, most likely asleep, but Tony held him just as tight and let his head thump against the wall as he stared upward. It was the loneliest he had ever felt, despite having the person he loved most in all the world hugged against his chest. It was the first time in the four years he’d been alive that Tony wished Peter had never been born.

 

Their house was full of people until it wasn’t. Tony made no effort to play host, didn’t bother keeping his anger in check, but it meant nothing in the end; people stayed, despite how much he snapped, despite the biting remarks and the vicious jabs. Rhodey and Happy, and Bruce and Natasha and Steve, even Fury and Coulson and Clint—more people than Tony had ever invited over since Peter had been born, unless he was throwing a party, and they refused to leave no matter how big his outbursts became.

And then Pepper walked in.

Tony turned around at the painfully familiar sound of her high heels on the hardwood. For a moment, he felt relief. Longing, even, when he took in her appearance, still the same woman he loved so fiercely for so many years, the immaculate state of her dress, her shining red hair, her jewelry that caught the light. He was caught off guard by the sight of her, then slapped back into reality when her eyes met his and immediately filled with tears, his own doing the same, until he glanced down at his son, and all that long-buried anger came bursting out of him.

Peter stared up at her, and Tony knew he knew, recognized her from the one photo Tony kept on his dresser. His heart lurched, and then he looked at the thick, wide bandage poking out from the hem of Peter’s shorts, so large it had to be taped to his skin to cover where they stuck the needle into the bone marrow of his hip. Peter’s face was confused, kneeling on the floor because he had trouble standing lately, and all of Tony’s rage and helplessness shot out of him like scalding gasoline as he rounded on Pepper.

“What are you _doing here?”_

Pepper didn’t look at him right away. Her cheeks blackened from the mascara running down them in the tracks of her tears, and Tony hated that she was even looking at his son, hated her for everything suddenly, hated that she chose to walk away, when she would have been the only person who understood.

“I had to see him,” she said, her voice quivering. The room was silent, all his permanent guests watching them, Rhodey limping up beside him and laying a hand on his shoulder.

Tony was about to tell her to get the fuck out when Peter tried to stand. He lost his balance a couple of times, his knees trembling as he pushed himself up, never taking his eyes off Pepper. The first time he had ever seen his own mother. She could have visited, but she never wanted to. “Mama?”

Pepper’s face broke into an anguished sob, her perfectly put-together mask slipping as she fell to her knees. Peter wobbled forward, but she was crying too hard to reach out and help him, burying her face in her hands, wrinkling her freshly-tailored skirt. Tony moved before she could compose herself, bending down and gently taking Peter into his arms before he reached her, not wanting her to even look at his son, after everything he’d been through without her.

“Get out,” he said, swallowing as much hostility as he was able, pretending not to see the way Peter was reaching for her. “You have no right to show up like this. I can’t deal with you right now.”

“Tony,” Rhodey said, coming up to him, his hand landing on his shoulder again. “He’s her son, too.”

“Is he?” Tony yelled, turning to Rhodey, his hand coming up to cup the back of Peter’s head and press it against his shoulder, protectively. “So now I get to explain to him where the fuck _she’s been_ for the last four years while he’s fighting for his life? That’s fair to you?”

Peter started crying against his shoulder, but Tony merely turned and set his gaze back to Pepper, his teeth clenched so hard that they ached. “You have some nerve, you know that? Just when I thought this couldn’t possibly be any more difficult, you walk in here like you own the place and act like you have _anything_ to grieve? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Tony,” she begged, her shoulders hunching, shaking with her sobs. “Please. I just want to see him.”

He bared his teeth like an animal, the anger feeling so good, such a welcomed relief after all these long, grief-filled weeks. “You should’ve thought about that before you walked out,” he snarled, holding Peter tighter when the boy weakly tried to turn around. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Tony!” she sobbed again, loudly, staring up at him from where she still knelt on the floor. “Please, I’m _begging_ you! Just for a little while, please, I just want to see him!”

“Daddy,” Peter said against his shoulder, crying too, still wiggling so he could turn and see his mother. “I wanna see Mama.”

Tony’s glared fiercely at her. He told himself he was doing this to protect Peter, but the resentment refused to be overlooked, looming over him like a demon standing in his shadow. All the nights he had stayed up till dawn, fighting to keep himself from sobbing so hard that his ears rang and his muscles ached, all alone, because she decided to give him a child and then disappear, leaving everything up to him, all the bad on top of all that good, all the things he couldn’t handle, things she chose not to be a part of, was too late to be a part of, now.

He held Peter tighter, pouring every shred of his anger and guilt into his next words, the last words he ever intended to say to the woman he loved.

“Get out.” He kept Peter’s head down, against his shoulder, so he couldn’t see her face. “Or I’m calling the cops.”

Pepper forced herself to stand on shaking legs. Steve was there in an instant, helping her up, and for a moment, Tony thought the man would tell him off for throwing her out. But something in Steve’s face changed when their eyes met, and he leaned in and whispered something to Pepper that Tony couldn’t hear. She stared at him for a moment, then trailed her watery gaze to the back of Peter’s head.

“Goodbye, Peter,” she sobbed quietly, failing to keep her voice steady. “I love you very much.”

Tony bared his teeth, opened his mouth to scream at her, but Peter weakly curled his fist in Tony’s shirt and said, “I love you too, Mama.”

It was too quiet for Pepper to hear. It was too quiet because Peter’s meds made him quiet, and tired, and ill. It was too quiet because Tony was pushing Peter’s face into his shoulder to keep him as far away from her as possible, so the only person who heard it was him, and he knew in that moment that his glare and his snarl dissolved off his face like they’d been washed away, the fury in his expression melting into grief in an instant. Pepper’s face softened when a single sob-filled breath escaped his throat, so he turned his back to her and fled from the room, left the entire floor; took Peter down to the workshop and locked them in there until everyone except Rhodey had left.

 

Peter’s room at the hospital stunk of disinfectant, Tony could practically feel it clinging to the fiber of his clothing, his hair. It’d been weeks of going back and forth between here and home. Every time Tony thought they were home for good, it was only a few days later that they were pulled back into this foul, hideous room. This was shaping up to be the longest they’d ever been stuck here, Tony couldn’t remember if today was day twelve or thirteen.

The TV was on, some drawling kids’ show he had learned to tune out long ago. Peter wasn’t really paying attention, but he kept it on. The door was shut, but they could still hear the coughing, the urgent voices, the crying. Tony would rather listen to the same Paw Patrol episode on repeat a thousand times than have to listen to the sounds of the hospital all around them.

Peter was playing with his toys on his bed, a narrow paper-covered cot that looked like torture to lie on. Tony watched him weakly lift and rearrange his blocks, building a tower, but he kept accidentally knocking it over with the IV tubes hanging off his arm.

The more he watched, the more frustrated Tony became. Peter just kept building the same tower, again, and again, and again. He’d get right to the last piece and his IV would catch on edge of the block, pulling on it before he could steady it, and the whole thing would crumble. Twice, three times, four times. And each time, Peter would stubbornly puff up his cheeks and start again.

Tony hated it. But he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t stop watching Peter’s abnormally pale little hands stack the exact same blocks in the exact same order over and over again. He didn’t even recognize those hands anymore, thin and grey, a little bird’s.

If only Peter would get mad, or upset, or give up. If only he would react to things the way kids are supposed to, so Tony could be the adult, the stronger of the two of them, could calm him down and console him the way he needed to be. Making his dad feel better wasn’t Peter’s job, especially not now, during the fight for his life. But Tony didn’t know how to do it for himself.

It was pathetic, he knew that. Sitting in this hospital room taking all of his anger out on a stack of children’s blocks. It was nobody’s fault but his that he couldn’t handle this. It certainly wasn’t Peter’s fault, he didn’t _know_ any better. And who was to blame for that? Even now, all Tony could say was, “You’re fine, you’re fine. You’re going to be fine.”

When the tower wobbled for the fifth time, Tony reached out and grabbed it, holding it still. Peter smiled at him, his skin so pale it was lighter than his teeth. Before he could say thank you, Tony tried to push the anger out of his voice and asked, “Why are you just building the same tower over and over?”

Peter looked tired all of a sudden. God, he looked so, so _tired,_ and small, and sick, letting himself finally fall back against his pillow, his tower complete. “I miss home.”

Tony stopped, his breath catching. He turned away from his son to look at the blocks in his hand. Peter had been so stubborn about arranging them the exact same way each time, each color in a particular order. Tony could see now, the yellow windows, the blue planes of glass to protect against sun glare. At the top, a protruding block, the balcony of their penthouse.

It was the only thing that would make him feel better. Stuck in this rotting room reeking of disinfectant and death, just wanting to go home. Peter could have thrown a fit or tried to cause trouble in his boredom, but he chose instead to build the thing his mind was stuck on, refusing to quit when it kept falling apart. He was so incredibly obstinate, Tony felt the air leave his lungs at the thought of what that kind of willpower could accomplish.

Tony held himself around his waist, his stomach brutally empty. He couldn’t stand to eat, Peter had no appetite and that stubbornness transferred over to every facet of his life, and Tony didn’t have the strength to force him. The nurse regarded him with cold judgment each time she collected their trays of food, still full, but he didn’t have the strength to give a shit about that, either.

He was tired of hauling his body around. It felt like the world had stopped but his body kept going. Kept needing to rest and be fed, bills to be paid, concerned phone calls to return. But all Tony wanted to do was lie down until everything went quiet. He would have, but doing so meant taking his eyes off Peter for even a second, and he couldn’t do that.

There was a light knock on the door, and Peter turned to look in its direction. Tony delicately lifted the tower, careful not to topple it, and moved it to the boy’s nightstand where he could still see it, before taking his own seat beside the bed. He didn’t look up as the door opened. He knew it was Peter’s oncologist when he saw the sky-blue scrubs beneath her white coat.

“Hello, Peter,” Dr. Cho greeted warmly, placing her small hand gently on his shoulder. “How are you feeling today?”

Peter was shy, but he liked Dr. Cho. He smiled at her and gave a little shrug. Tony could see his ribs when his hospital gown pulled tight against skin. “M’pretty sleepy.”

“Hmm. Well, you do have a lot of resting to do,” she said. “Think you’re up for eating? Even just a little snack?”

Peter's face scrunched up in displeasure. Dr. Cho looked to Tony, silently asking him to intervene, but Peter piped up and said, “My tummy hurts too bad.”

The imploring look she was sending him morphed into concern in an instant. “How long has it been hurting?”

“Uhm . . . ” Peter sunk deeper into his pillow, wilting. “Yesterday, and last night, and all day.”

Dr. Cho sent him a look, and Tony knew her next words were said to Peter but meant for him. “Well, we’d better get that checked out to make sure it’s not something dangerous.”

Tony knew that Peter wanted to beg, but he reached out and ran his hand over the knitted hat keeping his head warm, the closest thing to running his fingers through Peter’s hair that he had these days. “You should have told me your stomach hurt, Peter.”

Peter grimaced, apologetic. “I don’t like the needles, Daddy.”

“I know.” He scooped him into his arms, careful of the IV, the cords so heavy on Peter’s unbelievably thin arm. “But we’re here so you can get better. How is Dr. Cho supposed to help you get better if you don’t tell us when you’re not feeling good?”

Peter's head fell against his shoulder, and suddenly Tony was afraid to touch him. He was so light, his body barely staying in one piece, just a skeleton loosely taped together. It felt like it’d been years, but the truth was that it was only a few short months since all this began, and already Peter felt like the most fragile thing in the world when Tony held him, like if he moved too fast, he would break apart.

When had this become his son? It felt like yesterday that Peter was leaping over their living room furniture, begging Tony to chase him, running around their apartment in nothing but his underwear and a Batman cape. When Tony held him then, his body was warm, his skin golden and sun-kissed, his eyes shining and bright as he giggled and hugged him, his tiny body only beginning to shed its baby fat. How had all of that gone away so quickly? Tony looked at his son now and didn’t know him anymore.

“I’m going to get some tests scheduled, okay?” Dr. Cho gently said to Peter, then looked to Tony. “Mr. Stark, could I talk to you in private for a second?”

Tony bent his head and kissed Peter’s hat-covered head, setting him down. “I’ll be right outside, Peter. Okay?”

“’Kay,” Peter mumbled sleepily, nestling against the pillows, his gaze drawn to the TV as Tony stood.

When they stepped into the hallway, Tony left the door open a crack so he could still see most of Peter’s body. He was pretty sure he was asleep already, but he didn’t like to be out of hearing range these days.

“Tony,” Dr. Cho said, so damn placating, he hated the tone everyone used with him lately. “You need to start taking care of yourself. You’re going to burn out at this rate.”

“What do you mean?”

“You aren’t eating. You aren’t sleeping. I don’t think you’ve left that chair in three days. This isn’t healthy. Peter is sick, but _you_ aren’t. You have a responsibility to take care of yourself.”

He stared into the room, at the tall, narrow window across from Peter’s bed, the pile of toys stacked beneath it. His fists clenched, he couldn’t help it, suddenly so consumed by the need to tear all of this down and flee. “Yeah, well. I’ve never been much good at that.”

“I know you don’t believe me, but you aren’t going through this alone.” She laid her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “I could introduce you to some of the other parents we have here, so you have someone to talk to. Someone who understands what you’re going through.”

He appreciated that she didn’t claim to be one of them. She didn’t dare tell him that she knew how he felt, though he truly doubted anyone did. Maybe there were other parents here watching their children waste away, it made no difference. It didn’t change who Tony was, the countless failures and fuck-ups that led to him being here, the events of his life all stacked together leading to this moment. No one else could understand that, especially not the mothers and fathers he saw huddled together in the other rooms as he walked by them, people sharing this hell with each other, not alone, none of them as incompetent or useless as Tony was.

How could anyone else understand the particular and singular grief of knowing your son was stronger than you could ever hope to be? Peter refused to give up and Tony couldn’t give enough of a shit about himself to drink a glass of water. They were right about him, all of them, all along. All it took was the right hurdle to bring him crashing to the ground, and Tony folded, unable to get back up.

“You need to let yourself not be okay, Tony.”

He finally looked back at her. “What?”

“You aren’t allowing yourself to come to terms with the situation or process it.” She held his gaze, her sympathetic brown eyes. His stomach lurched. “You don’t have to follow him into the ground.”

He pulled away, his legs numb. He placed his hands on the wall and bowed his head between them, his forehead pressed to the hideous wallpaper. _Shut up,_ he begged. His mind was screaming, she was talking but he couldn’t hear it. _I can’t. I can’t._

“Tony.” Her hands on his back. “You need to breathe.”

Tony ripped himself away from her, his body thrumming like he stepped on a livewire. His hands were shaking, rage or panic, he didn’t know. He almost stormed back into the room, but he couldn’t let Peter see him like this. Incredible, invincible Peter, who hadn’t given up, who needed him. Four years old and stronger than Tony had ever been. He turned and ran down the hallway, needing to get away from the stench of disinfectant and Cho’s compassionate face, needing to run until the beating of his heart matched the chaos in his mind.

When he reached the parking lot, he hunched over a garbage can and vomited until he was gasping for breath. His hands were covered in spit and cigarette ash, and suddenly, all he wanted was a drink, stiff vodka to wash the taste down. His legs burned to keep him upright.

A woman came up to him, holding her hand out like he was a wild animal she was trying to soothe. “Sir? Are you all right?”

Tony flinched when she touched him. He pulled away, not even bothering to wipe his hands. “Do I look all right to you?” He stumbled but kept walking, the strength in his body gone. “Do I fucking look all right?”

He couldn’t remember where he parked, it took him half an hour of staggering through the parking lot before he found his car. He collapsed in the driver’s seat and buried his face in his arms on the steering wheel, completely exhausted. Peter would wake up and Tony wouldn’t be there. It was the only thing keeping him from driving to the nearest liquor store.

His phone vibrated against his ass in his back pocket. Probably Dr. Cho, or Rhodey, or Steve. He didn’t have the energy to talk, he just wanted the world to stop for a second and let him breathe. He wanted to curl up and be very small, let the cruelty of life wash over him without making contact. But Peter was small like that and it hadn’t saved him.

 _You don’t have to follow him into the ground._ Where the fuck did she get that idea? He gripped the steering wheel so tight the leather wrinkled. Who the fuck said he didn’t have to? Who said? His eyes stung with tears that wanted to fall, but he didn’t let them, just clenched his teeth harder until his vision swam. His chest ached from the effort of keeping his sobs at bay.

His phone started vibrating again, incessant. He banged his head against the edge of the wheel, not caring if he set the airbags off. He pictured Peter waking up in that hospital room, alone, scared without him, and felt sick with guilt. He needed to go back up there. But he didn’t want to watch it anymore.

Trembling, he reached back and pulled his phone out when it stopped vibrating. He didn’t so much as glance at the missed call list as he pulled up Rhodey’s number, his head throbbing. His forehead was probably bruised.

The man picked up on the first ring. “Tony?”

“I need your help.” It took all his effort to say, he could spare no more for the defeated tone of his voice. “I need you to come and be with Peter. Just for a while.”

Rhodey was speechless, Tony could tell even through the phone. He hadn’t asked for his help once in four years, not from Rhodey, not from anyone. “Where are you?”

 _Hiding in my car. Hiding from my four-year-son in the parking lot of a hospital. Losing it._ “At the hospital. I stepped out. I—I need a break. Please, Rhodey.”

“I’m on my way.” He could hear the familiar _thuh-thump_ of Rhodey standing, his leg braces knocking into the floor. The rustle of a jacket. “Listen, Tony, you stay put, all right? Don’t drive right now. I’ll come and take you home. Peter will be okay until I come back for him.”

He could tell by the urgent, no-room-for-argument tone of Rhodey’s voice that he had seriously set the man off, so Tony didn’t bother trying to stuff all his friend’s concern back into the can he opened. “Please hurry.”

“I will.” He sounded so strong. The branch he could grab onto before he hit the ground. Tony almost wept. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

Home looked different.

Tony rolled onto his back, stared up at his bedroom ceiling, the same room he’d slept in for close to fifteen years. But it looked different. The shade of paint seemed off, he took notice of the room’s peculiar shape in ways he never remembered doing so before, even though he designed it.

He hadn’t moved since Rhodey dropped him off, hadn’t so much as gotten up to take a piss after stumbling down the hallway to his bedroom. The penthouse was silent, but it didn’t feel empty. Tony pressed his eyes closed and wished that it did, that this shadow would leave him.

Something else came home with him from that hospital. Tony couldn’t name it, but it lurked behind him, on his heels, took up residence in his bed. He felt it next to him while he slept, constantly aware of its presence, like sharing your bed with a lover you didn’t fully trust, aware of it even in his sleep, lying next to him. It lingered around him but never touched, just made itself at home in their tower in Peter’s place.

Tony refused to acknowledge it for what it was. If he allowed himself to call its name, he would make it real, and he didn’t have the strength for that. Steve had come by last night, or the night before, he couldn’t remember, and tried to make him face it. _There’s nothing you can do, Tony._ As if that absolved him of the guilt. Like the helplessness wasn’t the worst fucking part.

Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone? He could have starved himself in that chair beside Peter’s bed and been better off for it. But they pulled him out and made him bring this nameless evil home with him, and now here he was, wondering which closet he left Howard’s CP Revolver in, if he still had bullets for it stashed away somewhere.

And still the tears didn’t come. Tony started to wonder if his body had given up even more than he had. At what point did he cease to be human? He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt hunger. Even sleep felt more like an escape than a bodily function now.

He closed his eyes, willing it all to stop. He couldn’t do this by himself. Pepper might have made the difference. Maybe he could have been the man she needed if she’d been here, taken care of things, kept his head up. But he couldn’t do it alone. It was just too hard to find that same strength for himself.

Yet, how dare he even dream of that? Peter hadn’t even made the difference, and Tony loved his son in ways he didn’t think he was capable of. If he couldn’t garner that kind of strength for Peter, the thing he loved above all else, who was he trying to fool by imagining he could have done so for Pepper? Maybe he was just _that_ obsessed with how people saw him, he let himself pretend he would've pulled through this nightmare purely on the desire to prove them wrong.

He missed his son. He missed waking up to messes in the kitchen, Peter trying to make breakfast for him, accidentally spilling an entire tub of yogurt on the floor. Tony pressed a hand to his face and laughed at the memory of Peter, two years old, figuring out how to lower the baby rail on his bed and trying to make himself a snack, how Tony had found him eating margarine with a wooden spoon in front of the open fridge.

He missed that fucking book. Peter’s favorite, he asked him to read it to him every night for four straight months. _As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be._ Tony could recite it from memory, every single word.

Tony remembered all of it. Every blissful, perfect second of his son’s four years of life. Those memories were what made up his existence as a father. They were the sacred moments only he and Peter knew, precious things that belonged only to them. Tony loved each one, but he didn’t want to carry them by himself. He didn’t want to be the only who remembered turning the entire living room into a pillow fort. Peter helping him cook, how much he loved to stir the bowl. Tony giving him a toy razor and letting him cover himself in shaving cream, Peter trying to follow along as Tony trimmed his goatee.

Those moments belonged only to them, and it was a profound and aching loneliness to think of having to carry them by himself. He didn’t want to. It was a specific kind of torture, being condemned to that.

A loud, metallic rattle filled the penthouse as someone unlocked the front door. Tony feared for a moment that it was Steve, back for another pep-talk, but Rhodey’s voice filtered in from down the hall and had Tony bolting upright in an instant. “Okay, here we are, finally home!”

He stumbled to his feet and rushed out of the room, just in time to hear Peter ask, “Where’s Daddy?”

Tony came to a stop in the middle of the foyer. Rhodey set all of the bags he was carrying down, letting them fall to the floor, before he gently lowered Peter to the ground. Peter started shrugging off his jacket, but stopped when he turned and saw Tony standing there. “Daddy!”

For a second, he let himself believe this was his normal life, Peter coming home from a day out with Uncle Rhodey and so excited to see him. But then Peter tried to step forward, reaching out to him, and his legs gave out underneath him, tumbling to the floor before Rhodey could grab him.

“Oh, oh, Peter—” Tony knelt down and started to lift him up, but flinched and pulled his hands away as soon as Peter was back on his feet. Peter rocked forward, dizzy, unbalanced, and grasped Tony’s shoulders to keep himself upright, and still Tony couldn’t bare to put his hands on him. It couldn’t have been more than a few days since they last saw each other, and yet Peter was so unbearably small all of a sudden. His clothes hung off of him like blankets. Diminishing right before his very eyes.

Peter gave up trying to stand and sat, plopping down unceremoniously with an exhausted huff. He blinked, slow and groggy, lifting a lifeless hand to rub his eyes, and nausea raged in the pit of Tony’s stomach at the sight of it, his pale, grey complexion.

“Daddy, are you feeling better?” Peter mumbled sleepily, blinking up at him. “You not sick anymore?”

Tony swallowed, tried to find the strength to speak. “I’m okay, Pete,” he whispered, scared to speak too loud, even a loud noise could break Peter’s fragile body apart. “I’m okay now. How about you, did they finally get some food into you?”

The boy nodded. His hat, which was supposed to be skin-tight, flopped down over his brows into his eyes. “Uh huh,” he said, clumsily pushing it back up. “Uncle Rhodey made me.”

“Well, if Uncle Rhodey and Dr. Cho said it was a good idea, then it must have been.”

Peter lifted his hands, reaching out. Wanting to be held. Tony had held him more in these last few months than he had since Peter turned three, when he started wanting to do everything for himself, by himself. Tony hadn’t wanted to put him down for even a second, scared he would vanish the moment he let him go. And now the thought of feeling that fragile body beneath his hands made his stomach roll.

He forced down his reservations the same way he had with everything else lately and pulled Peter into his arms, standing up. Peter rested his head on Tony’s shoulder, his nose wrinkling. “Daddy, you stink.”

Tony laughed, but cowered away from Rhodey’s stare. Those dark eyes boring into him, silently urging to pull himself together. “Yeah, sorry, kiddo. Daddy needs a bath.”

“Me too.” Peter reached down and lifted his shirt, oblivious to Tony’s jaw tightening as he looked away. “They put this stuff on me.”

There was a sticky, orange residue circling the stitches where they had Peter’s drainage tube lodged in his stomach. It was wrong, it was all wrong. His skin was grey and blue and red, dark veins, angry surgical lines, lifeless pallor. His ribs pulling against his pale skin like they were trying to escape from it. Tony could count each one.

“Let’s get you into the tub,” he said, a murmur, his voice was gone. Rhodey stayed behind, started unpacking the bags, even though bending over was agony for him.

 

By the time the first snow fell, Peter was home for good.

Dr. Cho had told him to be mindful of the last good day, when Peter would feel a little better, a little stronger, not in as much pain. She told him to cherish any day like that that came along, but every second was a bomb ticking. Tony feared the mornings Peter felt well enough to sit up in bed, terrified he would never see it again.

Mornings like this one, where Peter was determined to get out of bed, just for a little while. He didn’t want Tony to help him walk around, and it was agony, watching him stumble and waddle, the way he had when he first learned how. Tony sat on the edge of Peter’s bed and watched him, struggling to take a few steps, wondering if this was the last time.

Rhodey would be by later, the man practically lived with them now. There was so much Tony couldn’t do anymore. He knew he had changed, could feel it in the ache of his bones, the hints of grey his beard now had.

He wasn’t himself anymore, he knew that. Much of the time Tony didn’t know if he even really still existed. The days had all blurred together into one, watching Peter grow smaller and weaker until it was a _good day_ if the boy managed to stand on his own two feet. Tony’s body wasn’t nearly that weak, but he felt that loss of strength in his very core.

Finally Peter made it to the window, still the same stubborn little boy he’d always been. He pressed his hands to the glass and watched the snow fall in flurries over the city, his body a silhouette in the light. He still fought so hard for the things he wanted. Where did he learn that perseverance from? It couldn’t have been from Tony. These days it took an entire staged intervention just to get him to take a shower. Wherever Peter pulled his strength from, it sure as hell wasn’t his father.

Peter sat in front of the window, opened the chest of toys next to him and started pulling out his favorite set of building blocks. Their penthouse was silent, their ivory tower where nothing bad used to be able to touch them. It was only the two of them, miles above a bustling city, trapped in the clouds under a curtain of falling snow.

He watched Peter try and build the city, but all his buildings were only a few blocks high. He would stack them, one, then two, then try for a third and his arm would get tired, he couldn’t lift it that high. He finished the rectangle around Central Park, reached for another blocked, then stopped. Dropped his arm. Tony waited, wondering, for a moment, if Peter was lost in thought. Then realized he wasn’t.

Peter’s face twisted into a frustrated glare. He stared down at the building blocks but didn’t move, angry, until his shoulders sagged and he lowered his head. Tony didn’t know what he was looking at, until Peter wiped at his wet eyes, defeated.

Tony felt a tear fall and land on the back of his hand.

And then he fell apart.

He hadn’t dealt with any of it. Every minute of his time was dedicated to pushing everything down, but this was it, the straw that broke his back, that brought all of it crashing down on him. Watching Peter try and be a child despite these long months of wasting away had been hard enough. But seeing him give in, surrender to his sickness and his weakness, let go of his stubbornness when he had always been the stronger of the two of them shattered Tony.

He folded in on himself, his head in his hands, forehead almost touching his knees as he sobbed louder and more violently than he ever had. His ears rang, he couldn’t stop, almost screaming from the force of his crying.

This was it, the horrible thing he’d been avoiding for months. The truth, the thing he couldn’t bear to admit. Peter wouldn’t make it to five. Everyone knew, but Tony refused to acknowledge it, until now. He was dying. And Tony hated himself that part of him had buried him months ago.

He pulled at the strands of his hair, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. They didn’t stop the tears, they flooded into his palms, rolling down his wrists, soaking into the sleeves of his shirt. Tony’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, he wanted to curl up so tightly that nothing could ever touch him again.

A small hand touched his head, stroked through his hair. Tony flinched, startled. He lifted his head and saw Peter standing there, as stealthy as always, trying to rub his head to comfort him, stumbling forward to fit himself between his legs, his face wet with tears. “What’s wrong, Daddy? Why are you crying?”

Sobbing, Tony pulled Peter into his arms and held him, crying into his shoulder. _You’re dying, baby._ He couldn’t bring himself to say it, just thinking it was unbearable, this evil he had refused to believe, now rearing its ugly head and forcing him to meet it head-on. _You’re dying, and I’ll never see you again._

He couldn’t say it. So instead, he wrapped his arms as tightly around Peter as he dared and sobbed, “I love you. I love you, I love you so much.” Over and over, repeating it like a mantra. “I love you, Peter. I love you so goddamn much.” Peter was shaking, either from his own tears or being held too tight, Tony didn’t know. He could feel the trembling where his face pressed against the junction of Peter’s neck and shoulder.

“I love you too, Daddy,” Peter said, reaching up and hugging him, God, his hands were shaking, it must have taken all of his effort. But it was still there, the inkling, that spark of stubbornness, Peter determined to stand there and hug his father even as his body was wasting away.

Tony let his arms loosen, just slightly, just enough to let him pull back, but Peter still held on. How long had it been since he held him like this? How many months had gone by of him being too scared to hug his own son?

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Peter said, his voice small, but he spoke with more strength than Tony possessed in his entire body. “I promise I won’t leave you alone.”

Tony closed his eyes, held his son against his chest. He knew better. But a part of him dared to let himself hope, feeding off his son’s strength, the way he always did.


End file.
